When in Charlotte...

(12/02/10 - Added a link to the corresponding Examiner article at the end of the post)

Although Maryland is technically a southern state (it's below the Mason-Dixon line, and incidentally, is my homestate), I never really considered myself a true southerner.  As far as that goes, I never considered myself a northerner (or Yankee, as they are referred to down here), either.  Nomad, traveler, world resident, home-is-where-the-heart-is type of person - yes.  So, moving to a true southern state (North Carolina), was just another place to call home, southern or not. 

One of my preferences is to try the local flavor, no matter where I go.  What's the point of going some place new to visit just to eat at some chain restaurant you can get back home?  If you are going to do that, why spend the money to go to that foreign city?  Save the cash and buy the dessert at the chain restaurant back home!  So, it should come as no surprise that one of the first things my son and I did when we moved here was visit the quintessential southern state attraction...


I don't know about you, but when I think of North Carolina, certain things come to mind; tasty barbecue (although I'm not big on the vinegar based type...but I will learn to love it as much as Van's in Oklahoma, I'm sure), mountains, the Outer Banks, birthplace of Krispy Kreme (What? You didn't know that?  Shame on you!), excellent colleges, nature and beautiful scenery, and, of course, NASCAR!  Ok, maybe NASCAR is more like the first thing you might think of, but for dramatic effect, I had to put it last...

So, our destination to that quintessential southern state attraction was, of course, the NASCAR Hall of Fame.  (Here's where I can tag back to the geezer post...) Generally, I do not like to spend too much time reading the details about items; if it catches my eye and intrigues me, then I might skim over the information about that item, but that is about it.  Apparently, my son is filling my shoes a bit quicker than I thought...and in the meantime, I think he is pushing me out of mine!

After dropping $32.90 at the ticket booth, we proceeded to the ticket taker...which makes me wonder, why bother having a ticket booth and a ticket taker...why not make them one and eliminate the need for two lines?  But I digress...The ticket taker pointed us in the right direction, and failed to take our tickets.  The tickets were not really tickets at all, rather they were these cool back-stage, all-access-pass looking cards.  So the ticket taker was more of a directional guide and we soon found out what these cool "tickets" were really for.

About 50 feet past the entrance, a beautiful young lady with a camera almost as big as she, was blocking our path to the race cars.  If we wanted to pass, we had to get our picture taken...never mind the fact that I was lugging around my Nikon SLR with multiple lenses...that didn't matter, the young lady said.  So, reluctantly, we smiled for the salesperson as we stood in front of a blue (or maybe it was green...sorry, geezer moment...) backdrop.  As she snapped off a few shots, my son's facial expression pretty much summed it up..."why are we getting our picture taken?  I want to see the cars!" is what his eyes were blurting out.

Me, attempting to beat the institution!

After handing us a ticket where we could buy our very own picture of this memorable life event, she let us pass.  Upstairs to the third floor we went...where another photo-op person was conveniently placed in our pathway to viewing horsepower of days gone by.  Grrr...This time, I got smart.  I figured out what the gentleman was taking a digital picture of, positioned myself in a way that I could replicate the scene, and snapped off a few of my own shots while my son held the green flag above the starting line of resting, over-sized go-karts below.  HA!  Take THAT NASCAR marketers!  Of course, the picture I took is far from the caliber of Walter Iooss, but I felt a slight sense of redemption, anyway. (And, boy, I hope posting about this doesn't mean I'm traceable and now have some fines to pay...)


Finally, we were off, free as birds, unrestricted (except by the ropes, closed doors, and glass encasing around the memorabilia), and ready to learn the rich history of NASCAR.  Since my son had been talking about becoming a NASCAR race driver since the day we loaded the covered wagon to move from Oklahoma to North Carolina, I figured he would want to know all about NASCAR's past.  The first exhibit we came to detailed some of that history, but it did not have a car in front of it.  As I was reading the sign, (something I rarely do, don't forget) I reached for my son to put my arm around him so that we could take this moment in father-son bonding time, and cherish it for years to come.  I reached to my left...nope, not there.  I reached to my right...hmmm, not there either.  Ahhh, there he is...ten steps ahead of me.  I called out to him and suggested he stop and read the signs.  "Dad, I want to see the cars!" he fussed.  So off to the cars we went.

Did they really use bungee cords to hold down the hood?

Let's step back for a moment.  When we first entered the building, I asked how long we could expect to be in the Hall.  The lady said, typically people spend about two hours from top to bottom.  About ten minutes into our visit, we were done with the first of three floors.  Fortunately, the second floor was a bit more interesting to him.

Trying pit-crew

A natural talker...errr...I mean announcer!

The second floor was more interactive, and, best of all, it had race cars!  As a result, we spent about a full twenty minutes there, before he got bored.  As I was trying to get him to slow down to read some of the descriptions, he was busy checking out the pit crew area, simulation games, and wanting to spend more money to sit inside a genuine replica of a model race car.  Of course, I wanted to do this too, since I had not yet accepted my potential geezer status, but being short of funds made it difficult to succumb to the awesomeness factor.  So, we headed off to the first floor...where all the cool cars are.

Looking back

The first floor had a smattering of the different vehicles throughout NASCAR's existence.  As much as I wanted him to learn the history of a sport that we were, no doubt, going to be immersed in from living in the NASCAR capital of the world, I was just as excited as he was to see the life-sized, posed racers.  Ten minutes later, we were headed to the exit doors...


To exit the building we were directed to pass by the photo booth where we could purchase the many photos of us taken by the trained staff.  Somehow, we managed to duck past the eagle eyes of the salespeople and just when we thought we were free, the gift-shop magically appeared.  Off in the distance, I could see the exit, but my son's eyes could only see the merchandise.  Being the smart kid that he is, he went for one of the smaller items, knowing that his chances of me saying yes were much greater for this item than if he asked for a $200 coat.  However, I could not bring myself to buy a $10 matchbox car and so we escaped the NASCAR marketers grip once again.

Those forty minutes made me remember the days my parents took me sightseeing.  I had no desire to see the Louvre, Prado, Sugarloaf Mountain (but the bikinis in Ipanema sure were nice), or most of any of the other incredible places I was fortunate to visit as a kid.  All I wanted to do, other than check out the girls at Ipanema, was sleep and eat...and I could do that at home!  But, I am forever grateful to my parents for dragging me to these awful places and torturing me by forcing me to visit the Eiffel tower, or spending time in London, because now that I can appreciate it, I cannot afford the trip, so at least those memories are free, and pretty cool, now.  Hopefully my son will, one day, have fond memories of me making him stop to read the signs, try to get our money's worth, and forcing him to take in new sights in new places.  Right now though, to him I'm sure this must somehow mean I'm a geezer.


Corresponding article at the Examiner --> CLICK ME! 

Yeah, he had fun, and it was $33 well spent to see him smile.

Not a big fan of #3, but what would a blog about NASCAR and North Carolina be without Dale?

(To be said in an Italian accent) - Kuita ya belliachi

One of the best things about moving to a different location/state is getting to take in all of the new surroundings, new restaurants, new traditions, and new sights.  In other words, everything is NEW!  Most of it is exciting, some of it is boring, but no matter what it is, it is something new.


A few weeks ago, we were checking out our unfamiliar territory and decided to hop into a small, one-off, Italian restaurant.  I use the term "Italian restaurant" very loosely because it was more like an over-priced pizza joint that happened to serve variances on the doughy tomato and cheese pie.  They did have a decent Stromboli, though!

Anyway, it was apparent the owners were from the New York area, judging from the decorations on the wall.  Their attempt at making a hole in the wall more appealing by decorating with Yankee and Giants nick-knacks was not lost on me.  I'll give them an A for effort, but an F for their choice of team memorabilia - hey, I'm a Washington DC team fan, what can I say?

Despite the ugly sports team memorabilia, there was one sign that made this place have a spot in our permanent memory banks.  It was because of this sign that we will probably go back, at some point, and try them again...while overlooking the Giants/Yankees junk.

The sign was a simple, ordinary, boring sign that had letters painted on a weathered strip of wood.  It was what my son said that made it so memorable.

A little past the half way point of our meal, in his best Italian accent, my son asks, "Mom, what does 'Kuita ya belliachi', mean?"  My wife and I speak multiple languages, but Italian is not one of them. We can usually figure out what a phrase in Italian or Portuguese mean, based on the languages that we know (Spanish and French).   "Kuita ya belliachi" was not one of these phrases that was easily figured out, though...until we looked at the sign...

Hanging on the wall behind us, the rustic looking sign read "Quityourbellachin'!" Karma must have been in full force that day since we had just discussed the fact that he needed to stop complaining and whining about stuff.  Quit your belly aching, stop whining, stop complaining, and any other phrase we have used in the past has now, permanently, been replaced with Kuita ya belliachi.  So far, it is working well.

This, of course, brings up a piece of advice I would like to share that may help you in the future...assuming you have children.  Sometimes, parents can get into a rut, just like kids.  What worked before, isn't even cause for hesitation on their part now.  In other words, kids become immune to time-outs, restrictions, and no candy days.  A month ago, any of these responses/threats would have stopped them dead in their tracks, shaped them up in a jiffy, and life would have been good and moved on. At some point, they decided time-outs are bearable enough that the price of sneaking a candy is worth the payment of sitting in a corner for five minutes.
 
As parents, we need to be creative because we never know when something will stop working.  These are the times that we need to say, "Kuita ya belliachi!" so that he gets the point.  In the case of his belly achin', his whining changes to laughter after we say the family phrase in our best Italian accents.  Of course, this has only been in practice for a little over a week, but it is is working so far!

When this one stops working, we will try to draw from our family experiences to trigger his attitude stopping mechanism to work quickly...otherwise, it's back to the drawing board, and back to him sitting in time-out...only this time it will be for 30 minutes so that I can take a quick power nap!

Do you have a family motto or sayings that only you and your family would understand?  I would love to hear about them, if you do.  Feel free to send me an e-mail or post a comment.

Please be sure to check out the Examiner article that corresponds to this story HERE.  

As always, thanks for reading!

17th Annual Carolina Renaissance Festival - Alternate title: Who is Clevis, Dad?

I just finished an article on the 17th Annual Carolina Renaissance Festival on the Examiner. ( Renfest article ) In the article, I touched on some of the basics about the festival, but there were a few things that I could not put in there that I can put in the blog.  Some of the things that made me laugh, chuckle, smile, and remember why I love being a dad.

The festival was very much like the Maryland Renaissance Festival; full of vendors peddling their goods, lots of food to purchase - some of it really really good, some not so much -, cold beer to enjoy (which might have been good if it wasn't so cold outside and idiot me wasn't wearing shorts and a tee-shirt), awesome costumes, great performances, cool swords, neat jousting tournaments, and cleavage. Yes, I said cleavage, but I am not going to discuss that...yet.

The festival was all that I had hoped for...well, except for having to park at the very far edge of the parking lot and having to walk two miles before actually entering the gate. As we approached the gate, my son's enthusiasm began to shine as if he just hit the million dollar jackpot.  Dressed in makeshift renaissance gear, complete with his homemade (made by yours truly) shield, Oklahoma Medieval Faire  purchased sword, and a white tee-shirt decorated by Sharpie with his own designs, he was ready to experience all that North Carolina Renaissance Festival had to offer...in his Chuck Taylor high tops...The participants of the festival, and some of the patrons, were dressed in period costume, and yes, there was some cleavage...but that is still for later.

Immediately after entering the gate, he wanted to run to every store that had anything to do with hats, swords, or knight armor.  Unfortunately for him, his mother, me, and his aunt pulled back on the reigns and kept him at bay.  Don't worry, he got to do plenty of what he wanted, so I did not earn the title of "Worst Dad Ever!" from him...yet.

His excitement popped into overdrive as he saw the wooden ships go round and round.  With enthusiasm, he politely asked if he could ride them.  Then he asked if I would go on it with him.  Now, these "ships" were more like wooden dinghies that could hold one average sized person, or two small kids.  My son is not a small kid, and I am 6'3" 250lbs.  Needless to say, I did not go on the ride with him.

After I got over the initial shock of the price to sit in a wooden tub and go around in a circle, I changed lenses on the camera and tried to snap off a few shots.  I did not look at them until today...the joy on his face left me wanting to relive the moment and my own childhood when life was so much easier.  How often do we, as adults, pay three bucks for anything that makes us grin from ear to ear?  Maybe we need to search harder for those moments, or perhaps we need to cherish the moments our kids feel when it is happening, and not wait to see them through the memory card stuck in the computer.  Either way, I am really glad I spent those three bucks on those silly dinghies!

As the day progressed, he got to try on helmets, play with swords, and stuff his face with yummy treats (as did I).  At the end of the day, he hustled front row seats in the jousting arena, to watch the final joust - the fight to the death!  Our knight was Sir Maximilian, that mean, cheating, dark knight...who kicked butt, but in the end, good always wins.

Exhausted, cold, and ready to walk the two miles back to the car, we headed out to the parking lot after checking out the remainder of the village.  Sir Max must not have suffered major wounds because he was standing at the exit gate, so we snapped a few pictures.

After the long trek through the wilderness (parking lot), we finally arrived to our chariot.  We had to take my sister home and decided to stop in to say hey to my brother-in-law.  As we were discussing the day, I mentioned to him that he missed out on some good sights...cleavage, to be precise.  His eyes opened wide and he said something along the lines of, "What?  If I had known about the cleavage, I would have gone!"  It was at this point I found out my son is still a kid...thank God.  His response was, "Dad, who is Clevis?"  "Clevis?" I asked, "Yeah, Clevis." he repeated.  All I could think to say, between the chuckles, was, "Don't worry, one day you will understand when you meet those twins yourself."

Don't forget to check out the Examiner article and thanks for reading!
Examiner Link

I'm published!!!

Woohoo!  I'm officially a published writer...check it out (hopefully this link will work...)  1st Examiner article  Let me know what you think, and as always, thanks for reading!